


I Will Do Anything For Love

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft was a spy, Overprotective!Mycroft, angst with fluff, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg was kidnapped and tortured. Six months later he wakes up after a nightmare and has a long-overdue conversation with Mycroft about his role as the British Government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Do Anything For Love

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to do something where Mycroft lost his temper a bit. Ended up with this.
> 
> As usual, you can find me at my tumblr [here](http://iolre.tumblr.com) for previews/commentary/etc!

_"Put the knife down." Greg's eyes widened as his boyfriend's voice emerged from the shadows. If Greg had been physically able to he would have been running in the other direction. Mycroft sounded - cold, like a razor blade slicing open someone's skin. Like what the bastard Mycroft was threatening had been doing to Greg for the past six hours. It was a miracle he had not passed out from the blood loss. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought it was. He watched as the eldest Holmes leveled a gun at his tormentor's forehead, clicking off the safety. "I will not repeat myself."_

_Scowling at Mycroft, Greg's tormentor threw the knife onto the floor. It was crusted with Greg's blood, but Greg hardly noticed as Sherlock and John emerged from behind Mycroft. John took charge of him, undoing the ropes that bound him to the chair. Even Sherlock was useful, rubbing feeling back into blood-starved limbs. His hands and feet prickled - it was a strange albeit good sensation. It meant the blood flow hadn't been compromised. "I'm surprised you're still conscious," John muttered, examining Greg's chest and thighs intently._

_For all that Greg was clothed only in his underwear, he didn't feel exposed. Mycroft was here. He would make it all better, he would take care of him, everything would be fine. "Don't let him get away." The words didn't come easily to Greg, but he was able to get them out. The blood loss was quite severe, then. Not that he expected any different. He had been a captive for twelve hours. Six hours prior he had been left with Knife. The man seemed to carry more sharp implements than was humanely possible, and he had used several on Greg. The one Mycroft had made him put down was merely the last in a long line of torture tools._

_"We won't." Knife was kneeling in front of Mycroft, the muzzle of the gun pressed to his forehead._

_"Mycroft, you can put the gun down now," John reassured the taller man. "Sherlock, strip him."_

_"I don't think that will be necessary. Sherlock, stay where you are." Mycroft maneuvered himself so that he was next to Greg, making certain that the others were out of the line of fire._

_"Mycroft, don't --" Sherlock was too late. A flash, a loud noise, and Knife crumpled to the ground. Mycroft holstered the gun and turned back to Greg, who jolted away, his eyes wide with surprise. Blood spattered the front of the politician's clothing, droplets extending as far as his face. His eyes were cold and focused, devoid of any emotion. The red was a harsh contrast with the paleness of his skin, an angel blending with the devil until one was indistinguishable from the other. Mycroft took in a deep breath and exhaled just as slowly._

_"At least we don't have to arrest him," Sherlock muttered, long fingers assisting Greg's blood in circulating. He jerked under the touch, aware he was starting to shake, to lose control._

_"He's going into shock," John said grimly. "Mycroft, we needed an ambulance hours ago. Get one here now."_

_"It is on its way." Greg's breathing was starting to come faster and faster, short, sharp gasps that he could not seem to catch. Mycroft spoke, but he wasn't looking at him, wasn't looking at him, he didn't want him, Greg was nothing..._

_"Greg, I need you to breathe, okay?" John's voice was calm and reassuring. Mycroft - Mycroft was walking away. He was leaving. Greg tried to move, tried to reach for him, something, anything - he couldn't go, Greg needed him, where was he going... A sharpness on the side of his neck, a whispered apology, and Greg sank into darkness._  
  
It was disorienting, waking up. The room was dark and Greg couldn't tell what was false and what was true. "Gregory?" Mycroft's voice was groggy and Greg could see his lanky form lift itself up from underneath the sheets. He was even rubbing one of his eyes. It was human and endearing and if Greg hadn't been in the middle of a panic attack he would have kissed him for it. "Calm down, love." Mycroft was fully awake now and he reached over and switched on a small bedroom lamp that he had had installed specifically for this purpose. Greg fought to control his breathing as he watched Mycroft shift positions, sitting with his back against the headboard and propping a pillow in the V of his legs.

"Can't, breathe," Greg panted, his body shaking with the effort required to produce the words.

"I know, love," Mycroft murmured, soft and reassuring. Gentle hands moved Greg until he was curled up in the V, his head resting on Mycroft's chest. Long, tender fingers moved up and down Greg's body, cherishing, worshipping. Greg felt valued, cared for. This was his Mycroft - not the Mycroft that had held the gun just six months ago. "There you go," Mycroft encouraged, whisper-quiet. "There you go." Slowly Greg's breathing eased and he felt himself uncoil, felt himself relaxing against Mycroft's lanky, slender body. Greg wrapped an arm around Mycroft's middle, slipping between him and the headboard, nuzzling Mycroft's chest as he did so. The ginger chest hair was comforting and familiar, something Greg had became intimately familiar with in the two years they had been dating.

They laid in silence for several long minutes, the only noise the sound of their breathing. Mycroft's was soft and steady, a metronome, a model. Greg's was short and jerky, quiet barring the occasional gasp and shudder. "Why did you shoot him?" Greg asked finally. It was a question that had long been on his mind the past six months, since the night he had been found in the warehouse, broken and bleeding. The physical scars had healed, although a few pained him in bad weather. The emotional scars were on their way, but with Greg's job, it was slow going. Neither he nor Mycroft had ever brought up what had happened that night in the warehouse.

It wasn't long before Greg regretted asking the question. Mycroft had gone rigid with tension underneath him, his gaze no longer soft and loving but ice cold and his eyes were focused on the wall opposite them. The hand that had been lovingly caressing Greg's back had stilled before it dropped to the side. Mycroft tilted his head back, exposing his neck, his hands palm-up. It was an extremely strange position until Greg noticed how vulnerable it made him. The tilt of his head exposed his jugular, the upturned palms the heavy, pulsing veins underneath the skin of his alabaster wrists. Greg was certain that if he had not been lying on his legs, Mycroft would have shifted his posture to expose the femoral arteries as well. It was like Mycroft was offering himself for slaughter. It frightened Greg.

"When I got the call that you were missing..." Mycroft's words hitched, his face losing some of the tension but not the rigidity. "My world ended. It crashed, and burned, and brought everything down with it." He closed his eyes slowly, although he was unable to stop a tear sliding down his cheek. The vulnerability and the coldness of his gaze and posture confused the detective inspector. All he could do was curl closer and hope it would end soon. "Seeing you in that warehouse - knowing you had lost nearly the limit of your blood volume, that he had done that to you, that he had tortured you..." Mycroft trailed off again, fighting whatever facial expression wanted to display itself on his face. "I lost my temper."

"I've never seen you so cold," Greg murmured. That was his real fear, he realized. Mycroft had been so in control, so absolutely cold hearted in dealing with Knife. Could he do that to Greg someday?

"Never to you, love." Awkwardly Mycroft bent down and kissed Greg on the forehead, shifting so that he could wrap an arm about the detective inspector. "Never to you." Damn the Holmes and their mind-reading, Greg thought acerbically. They made his life more difficult when they did not allow him to express what he was thinking.

"The first time I ran into Sherlock, after we had met, he warned me off you." Greg spoke slowly, his words measured and cautious. He was tracing designs on Mycroft's stomach, sensitive fingertips tracing over scars that merely accentuated how pale the politician was. He never knew the stories behind them, although he knew the time frames in which some of them were acquired. Greg had long learned to accept that there would be much about Mycroft’s work that he would never be able to tell him about. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt sometimes. "He told me you were the most dangerous man I would ever meet."

"I cannot say he might be incorrect in that assumption," Mycroft answered. "I have a vast network of resources that can be utilised for - a variety of situations."

"Was he the first man you killed?" Greg asked suddenly. He doubted it. Mycroft resembled a military combat veteran - he looked like a man who had seen far too much death.

"No." Mycroft's hand found its way into Greg's hair, raking through the silver strands with practiced efficiency. "Although I am primarily administrative in position now." He took a shaky breath and then exhaled deliberately. "I have executed thirty seven people. Made countless more disappear." Mycroft waited patiently for the tension to seep out of Greg's frame. "I have done what I have had to, for Queen and Country. For myself. For the few people I find myself able to care about in this world."

"You think about it often, then?" Greg found himself saying, his voice cautious. Inwardly he swore, although what confused him the most was how pleased Mycroft looked.

"I remember them every day, Gregory." Even the great Mycroft Holmes couldn't stifle a yawn when he was flat-out exhausted. "I do not enjoy taking a life. Sometimes it must be done for the greater good, however, and I do have my duty." He paused as if considering what he was going to say next. "I would not hesitate to do what I did again. Your life is much more valuable to me than theirs."

"Mycroft, we have the justice system for a reason," Greg informed him. Mycroft's response was blithe and not at all contrite.

"Ah, yes. We do have justice. Yet even with our system, criminals occasionally walk free and commit horrendous crimes." Greg opened his mouth to protest and Mycroft shushed him with a raised eyebrow. "As a detective inspector, I know that you especially believe in our courts. However, you do not understand what the possibility of that man walking free does to me. Everything disappears and it is me, left to protect your safety." Mycroft closed his eyes and then opened them again, harder. "I cannot protect you or this country if I am worried about security issues."

"I'm not your property." Greg looked affronted at the very idea..

"No, no you are not," Mycroft agreed amicably. "You are my love, and that is far more important. Now, I seem to think I have answered your most important questions. As you still need your rest, Gregory, please reserve any and all further questions until tomorrow and I shall attempt to answer them to your satisfaction then. Is that acceptable?"

"Holmes," Greg muttered darkly. He tugged on Mycroft until he could curl up against the politician's warm body.

"Mm?" Mycroft murmured drowsily, a question rather than an answer.

Greg stretched up and kissed the underside of Mycroft's jaw. "Sleep, love." Without any more chiding Mycroft slid off into a dreamless sleep. Sleep did not claim Greg for a long time, leaving him to wonder just how he had managed to get so deeply entrenched with the man responsible for not only the entirety of the British government, but his heart as well. At the very least, Greg mused, he knew Mycroft would protect his heart at all costs. A blessing and a curse, all in one. Finally, comforted by the thoughts and Mycroft's warm skin, Greg allowed sleep to consume him. He would worry more in the morning. He would get his answers eventually, one way or another.


End file.
